After beers and pizza the night before and a farewell to find new friends, I awoke to he sound of redemption. 4am morning prayer blasted at decibels not heard at this hour since the height of the UK rave scene in 2002.
And to think the owner (our guide of yesterday had warned me about the cockerels – even they wanted more kip!).
Nonetheless, I used the extra hours to my advantage, packed bags and rode 10kms to climb atop one of Bagan’s Shwe San Daw Pagoda and watch the sun rise above countless other pagodas, accompanied by dozens of maroon coloured hot air balloons drifting amongst them.
Sunset box ticked, I visited temples not seen the day before, large and small; retuning for ample breakfast and coffee at the Bamboo Lodge. Sadly my kind and eager host was not present to say goodbye.
Suitably fuelled, I set off; but before I really got going, I had one errand; find two worthy westerners to gift the passes handed to me by Yannick and Tomas; still valid for a further 3 days.
Trying at first the ticket office, then the tiny local airport, I found none. Then, an authoritative yell from a man in uniform. Thinking I was somewhere I shouldn’t be, I turned to ride away, only to realise it was my guide, this time in the guise of a 3rd occupation, an airport concierge.
After a short, pleasant, but hard to comprehend chat, I awarded him the tickets in the hope he could resell or re-gift them.
Duty done, I set upon my route, almost instantly getting lost in a large building site with adjacent track the other side of a large steel fence. I was trapped.
Escaping via a walk of shame past c.60 or so construction workers, I was soon back on the road, then off again, as I entered the wilderness. Maps.me soon gave up and I had only my compass for bearings.
Several villages later, the track had turned to deep dust and wheels had lost any hope of traction.
Exploring side streets where sleeping cows rather than sleeping policemen acted as obstacles in the road, I came across my second ice cream of the trip in most bizarre fashion. A dead end. A man on a loaded bicycle with 3l plastic cans converted into speakers blasting out incomprehensible tones. Locals gathered, initially for whatever he might be selling, the. Simply to gawp at the strange structure of this lanky Englishman. Presenting me with a small sachet of congealed frozen goo, I knew I’d struck gold. I bought one for me and one for each of the locals gathered, before departing refreshed and hoping to avoid a bout of accompanying stomach ache.
Navigating my way through often uncyclable terrain was a real adventure and it was clear the locals hadn’t seen many white faces. Word soon seemed to spread and as I finally gained traction and built speed, a group of 15 or so had gathered and were starring right toward me, giggling, pointing and waving.
Spotting the first store in 20 or so miles, I grabbed the opportunity of a Coke and a chat with the locals, trying raw Taramind for the first time – what a find! All interactions here are using signs and pictures; English is very rarely spoken.
Further down the track, keen to top up with water, I heard a holler from the side of the track. After oodles of smiles and gesturing, I was ushered into a small holding, where extended family awaited. Tea, chick pea / tea leaf salad and a whole bag of sun dried sugar cane were presented and we larked about, whizzing the kids around the farm yard on the bicycle and doing limbo under the 5ft high shelter. Time to get back on the road, with the steady up hill agriculture exchanged for a clear view of Popa Volcano.
Accommodating foreign folk is still a fresh concept in Mt Popa as at Feb 2018, with a real lack of budget options available. Hotel Linn the closest bet to affordable at a whopping $30 a night, the lack of English, pokey rooms and noisy roadside location, were enough to put me off in favour of my most luxurious night of the trip, at Mt Popa Garden Resort ($60 / night), a true paradise, with stunning views, catering for the every need of a cyclist.
That night, with energy to spare, I cycled the steep slope to the foot of Mt Popa Monastery, where after being offered a cheap room at Mt Popa Resort, I climbed an almost endless series of steps to the monkey-riddled peak.
Arriving back at the village below, having left my bike under the watchful eyes of a local, I ate curry served in traditionally oily fashion, complete with veggies and dips.
Hurtling back down the hill, I soon heard the clunk of a bent disc rotor, arriving back to the resort in a flash. Outside stood the Manager, an incredibly sweet man who had awaited my return for over an hour. Not realising I had a light with me, he had been worrying about my whereabouts.
The end of a wonderful day, packed full of adventure.
10 – bagan to Mt Popa (the scenic route)
After beers and pizza the night before and a farewell to find new friends, I awoke to he sound of redemption. 4am morning prayer blasted at decibels not heard at this hour since the height of the UK rave scene in 2002.
And to think the owner (our guide of yesterday had warned me about the cockerels – even they wanted more kip!).
Nonetheless, I used the extra hours to my advantage, packed bags and rode 10kms to climb atop one of Bagan’s Shwe San Daw Pagoda and watch the sun rise above countless other pagodas, accompanied by dozens of maroon coloured hot air balloons drifting amongst them.
Sunset box ticked, I visited temples not seen the day before, large and small; retuning for ample breakfast and coffee at the Bamboo Lodge. Sadly my kind and eager host was not present to say goodbye.
Suitably fuelled, I set off; but before I really got going, I had one errand; find two worthy westerners to gift the passes handed to me by Yannick and Tomas; still valid for a further 3 days.
Trying at first the ticket office, then the tiny local airport, I found none. Then, an authoritative yell from a man in uniform. Thinking I was somewhere I shouldn’t be, I turned to ride away, only to realise it was my guide, this time in the guise of a 3rd occupation, an airport concierge.
After a short, pleasant, but hard to comprehend chat, I awarded him the tickets in the hope he could resell or re-gift them.
Duty done, I set upon my route, almost instantly getting lost in a large building site with adjacent track the other side of a large steel fence. I was trapped.
Escaping via a walk of shame past c.60 or so construction workers, I was soon back on the road, then off again, as I entered the wilderness. Maps.me soon gave up and I had only my compass for bearings.
Several villages later, the track had turned to deep dust and wheels had lost any hope of traction.
Exploring side streets where sleeping cows rather than sleeping policemen acted as obstacles in the road, I came across my second ice cream of the trip in most bizarre fashion. A dead end. A man on a loaded bicycle with 3l plastic cans converted into speakers blasting out incomprehensible tones. Locals gathered, initially for whatever he might be selling, the. Simply to gawp at the strange structure of this lanky Englishman. Presenting me with a small sachet of congealed frozen goo, I knew I’d struck gold. I bought one for me and one for each of the locals gathered, before departing refreshed and hoping to avoid a bout of accompanying stomach ache.
Navigating my way through often uncyclable terrain was a real adventure and it was clear the locals hadn’t seen many white faces. Word soon seemed to spread and as I finally gained traction and built speed, a group of 15 or so had gathered and were starring right toward me, giggling, pointing and waving.
Spotting the first store in 20 or so miles, I grabbed the opportunity of a Coke and a chat with the locals, trying raw Taramind for the first time – what a find! All interactions here are using signs and pictures; English is very rarely spoken.
Further down the track, keen to top up with water, I heard a holler from the side of the track. After oodles of smiles and gesturing, I was ushered into a small holding, where extended family awaited. Tea, chick pea / tea leaf salad and a whole bag of sun dried sugar cane were presented and we larked about, whizzing the kids around the farm yard on the bicycle and doing limbo under the 5ft high shelter. Time to get back on the road, with the steady up hill agriculture exchanged for a clear view of Popa Volcano.
Accommodating foreign folk is still a fresh concept in Mt Popa as at Feb 2018, with a real lack of budget options available. Hotel Linn the closest bet to affordable at a whopping $30 a night, the lack of English, pokey rooms and noisy roadside location, were enough to put me off in favour of my most luxurious night of the trip, at Mt Popa Garden Resort ($60 / night), a true paradise, with stunning views, catering for the every need of a cyclist.
That night, with energy to spare, I cycled the steep slope to the foot of Mt Popa Monastery, where after being offered a cheap room at Mt Popa Resort, I climbed an almost endless series of steps to the monkey-riddled peak.
Arriving back at the village below, having left my bike under the watchful eyes of a local, I ate curry served in traditionally oily fashion, complete with veggies and dips.
Hurtling back down the hill, I soon heard the clunk of a bent disc rotor, arriving back to the resort in a flash. Outside stood the Manager, an incredibly sweet man who had awaited my return for over an hour. Not realising I had a light with me, he had been worrying about my whereabouts.
The end of a wonderful day, packed full of adventure.
